Day 13 – Roaring Meg to Tidal River

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We wake in the dark, assemble, and set off southward through the bush by the light of our headlamps. The track is well made, but we still stumble a bunch over shadowy roots and rocks in our haste. The lights of a container ship drift through the shipping lane.

We pick our way across the rocks of the point to a spot sheltered in the lee of some boulders from the cold westerly. Robyn finds her geocache, and we sit and eat breakfast and drink coffee heated on our little camp stoves while we look out over the water. Sunrise spreads slowly from behind the headland opposite, bleeding a thousand warm colours into the distant ocean. Whales breach the surface now and then, sending up plumes of spray, and not long after the sun finally spills its smile over the hilltops, a pod of dolphins cruise by. You couldn’t ask for a better end to a walk.

As we make our way back and strike camp, I try to understand what I’m feeling. I feel quite satisfied with what I’ve accomplished here. Barring a boring little strip of road outside Hotham (which I’ll no doubt pick up next year), I’ve put boots on the ground in an unbroken line between Canberra and the southern tip of Tasmania. About 1,700km. I think I expected to feel a greater sense of completion, but this morning’s sunrise was better in its own right than filling in an arbitrary bit of squiggle on the map, and there are a thousand such examples I’ve picked up along the way.

For the last time, we check camp for anything left behind, hoist packs, and set off down the telegraph track. The sky has greyed over, and we’re tired and sore, but our spirits are high.

At Halfway Hut we stop for hot tea and ginger nut biscuits. I find a surprise salami stick stashed in my hip belt. I’ve eaten my entire complement of food, so that’s a boon.

We make a little diversion to find a geocache, and end up walking the length of Oberon beach. We stumble across two seal carcasses, a dead crested tern, and a dead gannet. Bird flu has clearly arrived at Wilsons Prom. Robyn reports the finds through the app.

4km from Tidal River, we realise that the store is closing in less than an hour. We pick up the pace and cruise down the last section at close to 6km/h, pushing our battered feet as hard as they will go. The manicured track flies past.

We fetch up at the shipping container shop feeling exhausted, sore, and extremely self-satisfied. We’ve averaged about 25km per walking day. The couple at the next table shoot concerned glances in our direction as we gather armfuls of food to carry to our campsite.

Not long after we’re done eating that, Ginger arrives. After a lazy afternoon of the two of them catching up, she produces pizza, which we reheat on the bbq hot plate, and beer, which we don’t. We eat at a picnic table and chat and run through the four questions for the last time as the sun sinks behind the tea tree.

“What are you grateful for?”

In unison: “fucken’ pizza!”

It’s a cliche, but the journey really is the destination. I do know for sure now that the line continues northwards. Perhaps not in any particular hurry, though.